**Diary Entry – June 12th**
The words hit me like a brick. “I’m leaving, Dad.” Emily’s voice trembled, but her eyes burned with defiance. She stood in the doorway of our cramped kitchen, gripping her phone like a lifeline. A pin on her denim jacket read *”Dream”*. “To Aunt Lucy’s. In Manchester. At least there’s something *alive* there.”
I froze, clutching my mug of cold tea. My daughter—my Emily—looked at me as if I were a stranger. Outside, the evening hummed with car horns and laughter from the neighbour’s kids. But inside my chest, it was eerily still, like the calm before a storm.
“Leaving?” I kept my voice steady, though my knuckles whitened around the mug. “You think it’ll be better there? Without me?”
“What’s here?” She scoffed, pushing her dark hair off her face. “You’re stuck in the past. With Mum. With that *bus* of yours. I can’t do this anymore, Dad. I’m fifteen, and I feel like I’m in a cage!”
She turned and slammed her bedroom door. The sound echoed through the flat. I set the mug down, my heart twisting. She wasn’t wrong—I *had* clung to the past like a life raft. But letting her go? That was more than I could bear.
**June 13th**
The morning smelled of burnt toast, cheap coffee, and the motor oil I carried home on my clothes. I woke at six, as always, to make my first shift. My old bus, faded blue and nicknamed *”The Old Man”* by the depot lads, waited in the yard. Driving was routine, but reliable—like a heartbeat. It kept me afloat after Sarah died five years ago.
“Em, up! You’ll miss school!” I called, flipping eggs at the stove. The radio played some pop song softly. Silence. Lately, she’d barely spoken to me, hiding behind headphones or her phone screen.
“Dad, I can handle it,” she muttered, finally shuffling in. Her school jumper was creased, her trainers untied, her backpack slung over one shoulder. “Were you in the garage all night again?”
“Had to check the engine.” I shrugged, handing her a plate. “Eat. You’ll be starving by lunch.”
“Not hungry.” She rolled her eyes but took a bite of the toast. She looked so much like Sarah—same dark eyes, same stubborn chin, same frown when she was cross. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of her and see Sarah laughing in our old flat, back when we were just starting out. But cancer took her fast, leaving me with ten-year-old Emily and a void I’d never filled.
“Dad, I’ll be late tonight,” she said, already heading for the door. “School project, then hanging with Jess.”
“Fine, just text me,” I said, wiping my hands. “And don’t wander too late, Em. I worry.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She huffed and was gone, leaving behind the scent of her strawberry shampoo.
I sighed, finished my coffee, and headed to the depot. *The Old Man* was more than a bus to me—it was my world. The smell of diesel, the groan of vinyl seats, the familiar faces of passengers who nodded good morning. But Em hated it. “*Dad, it’s just like you—old and boring*,” she’d once said. It cut deeper than I’d expected.
**June 14th (Late)**
I didn’t realise how far we’d drifted until tonight. I came home early, groceries in hand—potatoes, milk, Em’s favourite yoghurts. Her door was ajar. I meant to call her for dinner, but froze when I heard her voice on the phone.
“Yeah, Aunt Lucy, I’m serious,” she said, sharp as glass. “I want to come to Manchester. Dad… he’s not *living*. He’s just existing. Always in that bus, always stuck on Mum. I can’t *breathe* here. He doesn’t even see me!”
I stepped back, the floor tilting under me. She wanted to leave? Abandon me? I stumbled to the kitchen, slumped at the table, and stared into my empty mug. Memories rushed in—Sarah singing lullabies, Em as a toddler splashing in the lake, the three of us eating ice cream, Sarah wiping chocolate off Em’s cheeks. When had it all turned so cold?
**June 15th**
I made a decision. Em mattered more—more than my fear, my grief, even *The Old Man*. I rang my mate Dave from the depot while peeling spuds for dinner.
“Dave, fancy patching up *The Old Man*?” I asked. “Want to take Em somewhere. Like we used to.”
“Blimey, getting sentimental?” He chuckled, tools clinking in the background. “Give us two days. But you sure? Em *hates* that rust bucket.”
“I’m sure,” I said, grip tightening on the phone. “It’s my last drive.”
**June 20th**
A week of preparations. I took time off—first in years—and with Dave’s help, I fixed the engine, scrubbed the seats, replaced a cracked window. I hung the blue gingham curtains Sarah had sewn, dug out our old cassette player, even found a box of her recordings—her singing *Yesterday*, her laugh between verses. Em knew none of it. She’d come home, dump her bag, and vanish behind blaring music.
On Friday, I knocked on her door. She was flopped on the bed, scrolling her phone, earbuds dangling.
“Em, need to talk,” I said, leaning in the doorway.
“What now?” She eyed me warily. “If it’s about grades, I handed everything in.”
“Not grades.” I cleared my throat. “We’re going out tomorrow. Just us. In the bus.”
“*That* thing?” She wrinkled her nose. “Seriously, Dad? That’s lame. I’ve got plans with Jess.”
“Won’t take long,” I forced a smile. “Promise you’ll like it. Like old times. Remember the lake?”
She studied me, and for a second, her glare softened. She sighed, tossed her phone aside.
“Fine. But if it’s rubbish, I’m holding it against you.”
**June 21st**
The morning was crisp, the sky like polished glass. I loaded the bus with sandwiches, a thermos of tea, Em’s favourite digestives. She emerged in jeans, trainers, and that same denim jacket with the *Dream* pin. At the sight of the bus, she rolled her eyes.
“Dad, this is *actually* your plan?” She folded her arms. “Are we time-travelling to the ’90s?”
“Get in,” I said, ignoring her tone. “Trust me, just once.”
She climbed in grudgingly, slumping by the window. I started the engine, and with a groan, *The Old Man* lurched forward. I pressed play on the cassette. Sarah’s voice—*Yesterday*—filled the bus. Em stiffened, fingers tightening on her backpack strap.
“Is that… Mum’s?” she whispered, not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I kept my eyes on the road, but my mouth quirked. “She always sang on these trips. Remember how she made us join in?”
Em didn’t answer. But she didn’t ask me to turn it off.
**Later**
The lake was quiet, just reeds whispering in the breeze, water lapping the shore. I spread a blanket, unpacked the food, and handed Em the photo album I’d found. She sat hugging her knees, staring at the sunlit water.
“Look,” I said. “Us, Mum, you. Simpler times.”
She opened it, fingers hovering over a snapshot—her, tiny, perched on my shoulders, Sarah laughing with a fistful of daisies. Next photo: the three of us eating ice cream, Em’s face smeared with chocolate, Sarah wiping it off.
“I miss her, Dad,” Em said softly, voice cracking. “But you… you’re stuck. And I need you *here*. With me.”
My throat closed. I wanted to say I was scared—that without Sarah, I was nothing, that the bus was all I had left. Instead, I pulled her into a hug. She didn’t push away, burying her face in my jacket.
“I’m here, Em,” I whispered. “Always will be.”
We stayed like that till sunset painted the lake red. Em pulled out her phone, played her music—some modern band with crashing guitars. I smirked.
“Your *Beatles*, eh?”
“Dad, *don’t*,” she groaned, but she was smiling. “Want me to queue the next one?”
“Go on. Just not too loud. You’ll scare the ducks.”
**June 22nd**
We got home late. Em dozed against the window, and I carried her inside like when she wasThe next morning, as we ate breakfast together for the first time in months, she looked up from her toast and said, “Maybe Manchester can wait a little longer.”
